


Adamant

by ceresilupin



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2861855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceresilupin/pseuds/ceresilupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of the aftermath of the Battle at Adamant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adamant

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Into the Abyss.
> 
> This fic is a fill for a kink meme prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10859.html?thread=46047339#t46047339.
> 
> So, up front: I don’t 100% remember what happened at the end of the Adamant battle. I’d been playing for a while at that point, and it was my first playthrough. So I’m kind of hand-waving some stuff.
> 
> Also, I’m fudging Bethany’s age. I always pictured her as about fifteen at the beginning of DA2 instead of eighteen.

Evelyn wakes up in what could be called, if you were feeling generous, a tent. It’s really more of a lean-to, a bolt of cloth shielding the corner of what used to be a room, but is now without a ceiling, a door, and part of the floor. It’s just enough to afford her some privacy and warmth, which is good, because aside from some hay tucked beneath her, she has nothing but her armor to block out the cold.

Slowly, blearily, she turns onto her side and sits. The cloth ceiling isn’t high enough for her to straighten, so she slouches, running her hands over her head and trying to sort blurry nightmares from blurry memories.

Oh, right. Archdemon. The Fade. The Wardens. Hawke. Stroud.

Her ribs ache, her lungs protesting the curve of her spine and the press of her knees against her sternum. The world lurches dizzily as she crawls out of her ‘tent’ carefully, and she has to use the wall to pull herself upright. She accidentally pulls down the tent in the process, which turns into a hazard, as it tangles around her feet. She attempts to free her boot, but a sudden wave of dizziness sends her staggering towards the ground.

She would have fallen, if Commander Cullen hadn’t been there, catching her and helping her to her feet with an easy strength that she envied. “You’re awake!” he’s saying, gripping her shoulders and looking her over rapidly. “We were starting to worry – are you all right?”

The world has gone white and muted, in her lightheadedness. Evelyn clutches his gauntlets and braces herself until it passes.

“Yes,” she finally chokes, moving slowly to rub her head. “Dizzy, though. Sorry.”

Cullen is already calling over his shoulder. “Dorian!”

Dorian arrives at a trot, his usually impeccable hair tousled, a deeply harassed expression on his face. “Yes, what is it?” He eyes Evelyn impatiently. “You’re not supposed to be up. Why do you never do what you’re told? _And_ you destroyed my tent. What are you, a puppy?” Despite his words, his hands press her forehead and cheeks, with a rough concern that reminds her of her brothers – at least, her brothers before she’d been sent to the Circle, an emblem of her family’s shame.

Evelyn squints at him, which is hard with his big hand mashing up her left cheek. It’s probably good that Cullen is still supporting her other side. “Are you the healer in charge?” she asks skeptically. He checks her other cheek. “You’re a terrible healer. And why are you doing that? Stop!” She smacks at him weakly.

“I don’t know _why_ I’m in charge,” Dorian vents, side-eyeing the Commander when he rolls his eyes. It looks like it’s not the first time he’s done it. “I’m bloody awful at it, and my patients keep throwing things at me. Probably it has something to do with the fact that _I was the only mage conscious,_ thank you, Inquisitor. It is in no way a position I was suited for, or even remotely prepared.”

Dorian can go on like this for hours, if no one stops him, and Evelyn is too busy trying to smack his hands away to do so (now he’s gripping her chin and moving her jaw about). Thankfully, Cullen is there to help.

“What _are_ you doing, anyway?” he asks, as Dorian tugs on Evelyn’s ear.

“Honestly, watching her make funny faces,” Dorian replies blithely. “I need some sort of reward for my patience and consideration with you lot. Do you know how many people I’ve watched vomit in the past hour? Too many!”

Cullen sighs and frees Evelyn from Dorian’s grasp. Dorian continues speaking, unperturbed. “In any event, she’s fine. Or fine enough. Quite giving me that look, I told you she would be. The dizziness will pass, if she can be persuaded to lay down and stay down. You may fare better than I, in that endeavor.” He flutters his eyelashes at Cullen, and then ruins his attempt at coyness by grinning, pleased with himself.

Evelyn doesn’t feel so poorly that she can’t make a fist and slug him in the shoulder, so that’s what she does.

Smirking, Dorian saunters off.

“Sorry about him,” she says to Cullen.

The Commander is rubbing the back of his neck, looking like he’s trying to decide between laughter and chagrin. “I should be used to him by now,” he admits, and places a careful hand on her elbow. “And you should be resting. He’s certainly right about that much.”

Evelyn frowns at this coddling. “I need to find out what’s going on,” she says, and starts walking through the makeshift camp. Cullen perforce follows, still supporting her, his expression one of silent disapproval. “How many casualties? What about the Wardens? And how long were we in the Fade, anyway. It had to be days, at least.” She shudders, trying to picture a days-long battle with all the pitch and intensity of the one she’d encountered at the beginning, and dreads the casualty report.

“Slow down, Inquisitor.” Cullen lets her continue forward, but at a less frantic pace. “The casualties could have been worse – your work on the battlements saved many lives. As for the Wardens, they have been rounded up in a camp of their own. Not under arrest, but we are keeping an eye on them.”

Evelyn frowns at nothing in particular. “The Wardens fought alongside us.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Cullen’s eyebrows lift in reproach. “Some of them did,” he corrects. “Some of them fought _against_ us. Sorting out who was who is going be. . . .” He sighs. “In any event, they separated themselves, and are patrolling themselves for potential deserters. They’ve already caught a few.”

Evelyn huffs, picturing the mess that will be hers to handle.

“It’s an ugly situation, Inquisitor,” Cullen agrees. “And to answer your final question – you were only missing from the battlefield for a few minutes.” He pauses, still guiding her along, and she distracts herself by looking into the faces of those they pass. The injured had been in the back, shielded by those walls that were still standing. These were the men and women who needed no medical attention, but their mood wasn’t exactly cheerful.

There was no celebrating here. Evelyn couldn’t imagine that there was any celebrating anywhere in all of Thedas. The rift was closed, the demons were dead, and Corypheus’ plan was stopped, but the terrible fear and anxiety the battle had induced had a momentum of its own. It carries on now, roiling in her gut, hours after the last weapon was lowered.

It is in their guts, too. She can see it in their faces. Many are trying to sleep, but most are sitting and staring, speaking little. She wonders were Cole has gotten to.

“You fell from a great height,” Cullen says, drawing her attention back to him. They have reached a branching hallway, and because they are standing so close, with their voices lowered, no one else can hear them. “I _saw_ you fall.”

Evelyn’s chest tightens, and her hand flies automatically to grip his, turning to face him fully. He’s looking down, aside and away, but she can see the furrow between his brows.

“I was certain you’d been killed,” he continues lowly. “And then, minutes later, while I was still reeling, you stepped out of a tear and ended the battle.” He shook his head, the corner of his mouth turning up briefly, and then falling. He glances up at her with somber feeling in his eyes.

They’re surrounded by bystanders, most of whom are making no attempt to hide the fact that they are watching. Evelyn doesn’t bother to try and stop herself from cupping his cheek. He touches his forehead to hers and she exhales, her stomach wobbling.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Her eyes sting as her memories of the Fade come rushing back. What she saw, what she remembered. . . .

“None of that, now,” Cullen murmurs. There’s a rasp to his voice that makes her hands tighten. “I’m not. Not sorry you’re well, or that my feelings for you, are, well.” He clears his throat, his face coloring. “You know. It’s worth it, bouts of panic and terror notwithstanding.” His voice is dry at the end.

Evelyn feels her cheeks lifting in an unfamiliar expression – a smile. It’s been days since she smiled. Horrifying thing to realize.

“ _Do_ I know?” she teases him, swaying closer. Cullen shifts rapidly to catch at her, either because he thinks she’s still dizzy or because he simply wants her close. “Do I really? You might have to tell me more about these feelings of yours.”

His eyes darken, a lovely little smirk tugging at the scar on his lip. Evelyn is grateful for his support, she really is. Her knees are no longer up to task.

“Later,” he promises, and slowly, reluctantly, they break apart. His hand is no longer under her arm, but he stays at her side, guiding her to the Warden’s camp.

~

“Who _is_ in charge, here?” They have collected Cassandra and Leliana, stepping slowly through the ramshackle collection of tents and bedrolls to the bonfire at the center of the camp. Evelyn recognizes Hawke and Varric’s silhouettes ahead, and her gut tightens, remembering the choice she’d been forced to make. “Things are better organized than I expected.”

“A Warden-Lieutenant,” Cassandra answers. She is the model of constant vigilance, one hand on the sword at her side, the other gripping her shield. “No one I am familiar with. A mage, apparently.”

Evelyn might have said more – how had this mage resisted the ritual? _Had_ they resisted? She was even hopeful, that another mage was in power, and that this one might prove _reasonable_ as so many did not _._ . . but they reached Hawke and Varric before her voice could give form to her thoughts.

Hawke looks up at their approach, and nods. Varric, seated atop a rock and tending to Bianca, just calls a greeting. “How’s your knees, Inquisitor?”

“Still knockin’,” she promises cheerfully. “Hawke?”

The poor man looks completely exhausted. He had raged at her after they left the Fade, furious that Stroud had been left behind. And then, almost immediately, he had apologized to her, his hands pressed over his face. She had automatically gripped his wrists, stroked his arms, some instinctive urge to soothe overriding her usual diffident shyness.

She’d wondered, more than once, if they were more than friends. Hawke and Stroud. They’d seemed close, if careful around each other, a bit guarded. And she’d heard Varric asking Hawke about ‘his Warden’ a couple of times.

She hoped like hell she hadn’t sent the man’s lover to die in his place. She hoped, but she suspected it was in vain.

“I’m here,” Hawke says, which is apparently all that can be asked of him right now. “The battle is finally over.”

Cassandra eyes him watchfully. “Is it?”

His jaw set, Hawke meets her eyes squarely. “It is.”

“I agree,” Evelyn cuts in, before two of the most stubborn people she knows can start squaring off again. Varric shoulders Bianca and shifts to watch the fireworks, still seated atop his rock. “Hawke, who’s in command here?”

“A mage named Elspeth,” Hawke says. He had been suspicious and angry at the Wardens in the Fade, but his stance now is protective and defensive. “No one I’ve met before. She wasn’t here when Clarel began her . . . whatever you want to call it. An outsider.”

“Good,” Cassandra says. “But also suspicious. We need to meet with her.”

“Fair enough.” Hawke crosses his arm, a pose that Cassandra immediately mimics. Evelyn sighs and exchanges feeling glances with Cullen and Leliana. Varric just polishes his fingernails. “But I didn’t get the impression that she was staying. Just organizing things for whoever is appointed, and then moving back to her previous assignment.”

Cassandra is always mistrustful, but something about Hawke’s manner seems to have alerted Leliana as well. “I didn’t realize the Wardens still had assignments outstanding,” she says, her voice calm and sweet, but with that honeyed edge of suspicion beneath it. “A Warden-Lieutenant, you said?”

Hawke shifts his stubborn gaze to her. “That’s right.”

“Hm.” Leliana strokes her chin. Probably mentally reviewing all of her spy files about the Wardens, and trying to figure out which part Hawke is lying about.

Evelyn sighs. Her head is starting to swim again, and there’s nothing here for her to lean on. “Hawke, we need to talk to her,” she says bluntly, but softly. “Her, or whoever’s in charge.” Hawke’s eyes soften a bit, landing on her, and she continues. “There’s the issue of the dead to sort out, for one. I’m not – I _refuse_ —“ this is directed at Cassandra “—to bury the Wardens as traitors. No matter how they fell. Whether they were possessed, or just following orders, it doesn’t matter.”

Cassandra dips her chin. “I agree, Inquisitor.”

“We also need to figure out what happens next.” Evelyn rubs her forehead, shifting so that her feet are planted a bit more solidly. Her left hand throbs in time with her pulse, not painful, but distracting. “Leliana, you said Josephine had a report. . . .”

“Yes.” Leliana clasps her hands behind her back. “The issue of whether the Wardens will . . . continue to operate as they have, or perhaps . . . in some other way, has come up.”

Hawke regards her skeptically. “You’ll have to translate that one for me.”

“She means,” Cassandra interjects, “if we let them go, they’ll have a hell of a time not getting kicked out of every nation in Thedas, after what they did here.”

Hawke’s eyes flash. “That’s not fair.”

“That’s reality.” Cullen has been silent until now, pacing about and looking everything over; his voice is stern, but not unkind. “The Wardens are a politically independent army, even more so than the Templars. And we’ve seen what’s happened to the Templars once some of them rebelled – support for them has vanished. Even within the Chantry.” He sighs. “Raising demons, blood magic, working with a Tevinter mage . . . the Grey Wardens _must_ turn to damage control, or they’ll be exiled and likely hunted.”

“By the very people they’ve devoted their lives to saving,” Leliana finishes, voice sad.

“There is an option,” Cassandra says. “If the Wardens were to become part of the Inquisition. . . .”

Leliana’s chin jerks in shock, sadness forgotten. “You can’t be serious. Cassandra!”

“What? You were leading up to it a moment ago.”

“Yes, but I never thought you would. . . .” Leliana shakes her head. “Hawke, I more than most know what the Wardens have done for Thedas. What they still do. I never want to see them punished for what happened here. But we all know that the political repercussions of Warden-Commander Clarel’s choice will be – difficult to manage. If the Inquisition is tangled in it. . . .”

Varric grunts and suddenly drops to his feet. “While you higher-up types talk this out,” he says, “I’m gonna go get some grub. You want anything, Inquisitor?” He glances up at her, an ironic light in his eyes. “You’re looking a bit . . . peaky.”

Evelyn waves him off.

“There are choices to be made,” Cullen says, moving unobtrusively to stand at Evelyn’s side again as Varric departs. “If this Warden-Lieutenant doesn’t have the authority—“

“They don’t,” Hawke says firmly.

Cullen regards him thoughtfully. “Then someone must.”

Hawke appears lost in thought, scratching idly at his beard. A moment later, he seems to realize that everyone else is waiting expectantly, and he looks up. “Why is everyone staring at me?” he demands, and then cottons on immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

Leliana presses. “If Warden-Lieutenant Elspeth—“

“No.” Hawke cuts her off and points. “Stop right there.”

“You _will_ consider this,” Cassandra orders. “At least briefly. It would be for the good of all.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow. “Seeker, we haven’t met. Although I know you’ve heard lots about me.” He half-bows, and Cassandra smiles thinly, in appreciation of his tone more than his wit. “I understand that can make things confusing, but you are not – nor have you been at any point –in a position to give _me_ orders. I don’t have to consider anything.”

Cassandra’s temper is visibly building, but Leliana is harder to shift. “And yet you are,” she says smoothly. “Considering it. You can see, there would be benefits to this. The Wardens need guidance, leadership, and someone they can trust. The rest of the world needs to see someone in charge who can’t be corrupted by Corypheus.”

Cullen rubs his face, sighing. “I believe the Champion is already . . . previously engaged, in this capacity?”

“To Kirkwall?” Leliana cocks an eyebrow. “You have not been to your old home in years, Champion. And I do not think they would welcome you back.”

“Thank you for that reminder,” Hawke intones, at the same time that Cullen says, “They might surprise you.”

The two men eye one another. Evelyn is on fire with renewed curiosity – Cullen _never_ talks about Kirkwall – but they move on without another word.

“It’s still not up for negotiation,” Hawke finally. “I will not lead the Wardens. There, I said it.”

“Of course you won’t lead the Wardens,” an unfamiliar voice interjects. They all turn as a lightly-built woman approaches, clad in the robes of a Warden Battlemage. “You’re not a Warden. Why would anyone expect you to lead us?”

“Exactly my thinking,” Varric says, a step behind the woman. His hands are notably empty of ‘grub’, a fact that Cassandra’s exasperated glance notes eloquently. In addition to the woman, he is accompanied by an unfamiliar man, also a mage, an Elven cowl pulled over the lower-half of his face and his hood covering his hair. He hovers close to the woman’s side, a protectiveness to his posture that is plain to see. A lover, perhaps?

Varric continues. “Hey, look who I found. Just wandering around! Hawke, please don’t kill me.”

Evelyn is startled to find that Hawke’s face has gone white, his lips firmly compressed. “Dammit,” he breathes. “Varric.”

“I know what you were trying to do,” Varric soothes, moving carefully to stand at Hawke’s side. Evelyn rarely sees him stand anywhere else, when the option is provided, but he looks almost – uncertain. Like he thinks he might be rejected. “And I understand, I really do. But, you know, big brother. . . .”

The woman finishes for him, a fond note of exasperation in her voice. “You can’t make this decision for me.”

Hawke is staring at her, completely grieved. Evelyn can see it as clearly as if she were Cole. She is always out of place in these sorts of meetings, watching, listening, and waiting, until everyone’s voices are exhausted and a choice is inevitable – she’s always out of place, but for a moment, seeing the look in his eyes, she feels like an intruder. And at the same time, she wants to hurry forward and give him a hug.

Silence reigns, momentarily. Finally, Cullen shakes it off, stepping forward. “Inquisitor, Spymaster, Seeker . . . may I introduce you to Warden-Lieutenant Bethany Hawke?” He pauses, and then inclines his head respectfully. “I imagine she has come a very long way.”

Once she is named, Evelyn can see the resemblance immediately. She and Hawke have the same pitch-black hair and strong cheekbones. Hawke’s jawline is hidden by his beard, and hers is delicately feminine, but there is a resemblance there, as well. Her eyes, however, are a bright, somber blue, that seems precisely chosen to match her Warden’s uniform.

“The journey could have been shorter,” Bethany agrees peaceably. “Hello again, Knight-Captain. I’m glad to see that you’re well.”

Cullen looks surprised that she would say so, and bows a little. “I’m no longer a Templar, my lady,” he says. “I’m here as Commander of the Inquisitions forces.”

“I see.” Bethany sighs, and some of the stiffness eases from her expression. “I’ve been . . . busy, since I arrived. Warden-Commander Clarel didn’t handle our,” she looks at her unintroduced male companion, “insubordination well. I was in the dungeons when the battle began, and I haven’t had a chance to catch up.”

Cassandra shifts. “You are uninjured?”

“We have some very good healing mages,” is all Bethany says. She looks over the assembled men and women, and then her brother, who has mastered his expression somewhat but is still vibrating with badly concealed agony. “Someone please give me a run-down of what’s going on. Not Varric, though. We don’t have time for that.”

Varric smirks. “Why, Sunshine, I’m hurt.”

Bethany laughs a little. Actually, it’s fairly close to a giggle. She’s . . . _young,_ Evelyn realizes. It was hard to see at first, given the strength of her composure and the marks of battle, but she must be in her early or mid-twenties. A bit younger than Evelyn herself, actually. She surprises herself by feeling protective.

“Very well.” Leliana steps forward gracefully. “May I brief you, Warden-Lieutenant? I don’t know if you are the highest ranking Warden here. . . .”

Bethany shrugs. “I’m young for my rank. Most of the older Wardens either served Clarel directly, and so. . . .” She gestures to the ruined fortress, indicating where their bodies probably lay. “That, or they were misled by Corypheus, and went to their Calling. There are other Lieutenant’s, but none of them have stepped forward.”

Leliana nods thoughtfully. “Have you been briefed at all?” Cullen cuts in. “The losses of the battle?”

Bethany hesitates. “Not as such.”

“Bethany,” Hawke says. It’s barely more than a mumble, his expression is so taut, his mouth so tight. “Bethie.”

Bethany is instantly alarmed, Evelyn can tell, but she hides it almost immediately. “What?”

“There’s . . . dammit, you were supposed to be _gone._ ” Hawke scrapes his hands through his hair. “ _Why_ did you stay? You never even wanted this life! You could have been _free._ ”

Bethany’s expression turns steely. “I didn’t choose it,” she agrees lowly. “Not at first. But it’s mine now, and I’m tired of running away.”

Hawke sighs, his hands falling. “I know you are.”

“These men and women trust me. I don’t know why, but they do. I won’t let them down.” Her jaw tightens. “You would do the same, if you were me.”

“Actually,” Hawke drawls, “I was doing my best _not_ to do the same, when you showed up.”

Bethany waves a small hand. “It doesn’t count when you’re trying to protect someone,” she says. She hesitates, and eyes him worriedly. “But you were – you were saying something. Whatever it is, just get it over with.”

Hawke looks at Varric, who looks confused. But of course, Evelyn thinks, Varric wasn’t with them, in the Fade. Hawke then looks to her, and her heart breaks for him, because he’s clearly working up to tell Bethany something that will hurt her deeply. She’d suspected that he and Stroud were lovers, but the look on his face now . . . she may have gotten that one wrong.

“Bethany,” Evelyn finds herself saying. She usually keeps quiet, unless a decision is needed. And this, in a way, is a decision.

The woman turns to face her, guarded but not unwelcoming. She suspects that once she knows what happened, Bethany will want nothing to do with her.

“We faced the Archdemon in the battle,” Evelyn says. Her hands, bereft of anything else to do, clasp themselves in front of her. “Myself and those who were with me – Dorian, Cassandra, Cole, and . . . Warden Stroud and your brother – we fell.”

Understanding is beginning to dawn, very slowly, in the other woman’s eyes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and after a ragged pause, Evelyn has no choice but to continue.

“I – opened a tear to the Veil. Somehow.” Reminded, Evelyn looks down at her marked hand, and then away. “And we fell through. Our physical bodies, on the other side. We . . . almost made it to the end.” She resists looking at Hawke, resists the urge to turn the conversation over to him. “But there was a demon. A Nightmare demon. We couldn’t get past it, we needed a distraction, and I decided. . . .”

“I see.” Bethany’s voice cracks, cutting her off. “I take it this why Warden Stroud has not made an appearance? Normally he would – never mind.”

Evelyn hears Cullen sigh, feels the shift as he crosses his arms and turns away. Cassandra’s eyes are averted, and Leliana simply watches, memories of her own playing out behind her eyes. Varric simply stands beside his best friend, sadness and acceptance personified.

“Yes,” Evelyn says heavily, her own voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Bethany. I did not see his death. But . . . I believe he perished, so that we could return.”

Bethany nods, once, her eyes a million miles away. Evelyn had not expected her to weep, or rage. It was hardly the Warden way. Her tall friend with the concealed face, who was apparently not her lover after all, went to her side and bent his head to say something quietly, stroking her shoulders.

Bethany’s eyes fill abruptly with tears, and she swings aside, pacing away from the camp. Her friend looked like he might follow, but Hawke reaches out and stops him.

“Let me talk to her,” Varric says, surprising everyone, and then goes.

Hawke and the tall man wander a short distance away, their arms around each other’s backs. They stand together, exchanging quiet murmurs. Evelyn finds herself staring at them, observing their warmth and closeness as if from miles away. It was almost a calm moment, for all that everyone’s emotions were overfraught. For a moment, everything was out of her hands.

And then Cullen touches her back. She turns.

“When Bethany returns,” he says quietly, without preamble, “Leliana will need to brief her. But we need to know first – will you bring the Wardens into the Inquisition?”

Evelyn reflects wryly on the question. Normally, something like that would have come at the end of a long meeting, hours of back and forth, strategies put forward and discarded, torn apart by rhetoric or friendly teasing. Even if she declared a choice at the beginning, her advisors would not let her decide until they had exhausted their voices arguing.

But Cullen presents her the question in this simple way, probably because he knows exactly what her answer will be.

“Of course I will,” she says. “Thedas needs the Wardens, and the Inquisition could use their help to stop Corypheus. And they don’t deserve to be treated badly.”

Cullen’s mouth curves. “You don’t think _anyone_ deserves to be treated badly.”

She regards him steadily. “That’s because they don’t.”

His eyelashes lower in an acknowledging blink, his hand – when did they take each other’s hands? – tightening on hers.

“While you’re working on that,” he says. “I will begin organizing and preparing the troops. Bethany will need a promotion. I will try to find someone who can serve underneath her.” He looks over at Hawke and his friend – lover, apparently, and boy, she is terrible at reading people, isn’t she? – and pauses.

He’s clearly up to something, but Evelyn trusts him. “All right,” she says, and lets him go.

He moves away. “Try to remember to rest.”

“I’ll remind her,” an all-too familiar voice says from nowhere, and they both jump like startled cats. Cullen sighs explosively, exasperated, and hurries off with a shake of his head. Evelyn turns to face Cole, chuckling. He is sitting on the ground at her side, tapping his hands against his knees idly

“How long have you been there?” she asks him.

“Always,” he says. He up up from under his hat and hair, one of his impossibly rare, impossibly tiny smiles lifting the corners of his thin mouth. “But I wasn’t needed. You helped.”

“I tried,” she says sadly.

“You helped,” he promises, and like many of the other strange things Cole has said, it does make her feel better.

~

The Inquisitor was called away by Cassandra some time ago, and Leliana has been talking with the other Wardens, awaiting Bethany’s return. Things have been quiet, the night deepening, the soldiers around them slowly relaxing into sleep. He had feared many things, leaving his home to help Bethany figure out what was happening with the Wardens, but none of those things had come to pass. Other things had, but not those ones.

And then, like a voice from the past, Anders hears Cullen speaking behind him. “You need to leave.”

Hawke, standing at Anders’ side as always, turns sharply with a glare. Anders keeps his hood low, but doesn’t bother with the facial coverings – if Cullen has recognized him, it’s only a matter of time before the Seeker and the Nightingale are told. Leliana is a mystery to him, to everyone, but he’s certain that Cassandra will kill him. More worrisome is what Hawke will do when she does.

Cullen is harder to predict, as he always was. His face is expressionless, without judgment, watching them together.

“I can’t protect you for long,” Cullen says, when they remain silent. “When Cassandra learns who you really are . . . well.”

“And Leliana?” Hawke demands.

“Who do you think has been signaling me to get over here? Not to mention, standing guard.” Cullen looks to Anders, and his expression hardens briefly in rage, then indecision, then remorse, then despair. And then finally blank, as he locks his emotions away again. Anders sighs in something like sympathy.

“Believe me,” he says, as lightly as he can, “I know that feeling.”

Cullen’s eyes narrow. “I’m sorry?”

Anders waves, taking in his face and its struggle to keep up with his conflicting thoughts. “You know. Those.”

Apparently, Cullen doesn’t know, or at least doesn’t want to admit that he does. “We have mounts to spare,” he says, changing the topic. “There are camps further into the Approach. You can rest, recover your supplies.”

“But we can’t stay,” Hawke finishes for him, voice hard.

“You can,” Cullen says. His gaze shifts to Anders. “But you can’t.”

Anders smirks, thinking of the long battle he has endured, saving this man and his troops’ lives. “Oh, don’t worry,” he says wryly, “I’m not offended.”

Red-faced, Cullen says, “I thought you would want to stay together.” It’s a poor peace offering, but sincerely meant.

Hawke is offended enough for the both of them, though, his hand tightening on Anders’s arm. Cullen looks between them, and then faces Anders again with a sigh.

“I owe you apologies,” he finally says, and Hawke goes so tense in shock that his grip is briefly painful. Anders just watches. He’d expected something like this, someday. In hindsight – and it was only in hindsight that he found any clarity – he had known there was something decent in the Knight-Captain, beneath his seething rage. Admittedly, he hadn’t expected it so _soon_. “I also owe you retribution, for Grand Cleric Elthina, and the other brothers and sisters. I’ve found that the two cancel each other out.”

“They don’t, really,” Anders said mildly. “You would be well within your rights to kill me where I stand. I wouldn’t stop you.” It’s not the first time he’s offered his life this way.

“That’s debatable,” Hawke growls. “And I sure as hell _would_ stop you.”

Cullen smiles thinly.

“You know,” Hawke continues, because apparently the day hasn’t been stressful enough, let’s poke at some old wounds for good measure, “I’ve always wondered how much you knew. About what happened there. To the Tranquil, to the men like Thrask, and the girls like Ella. Why it all went so wrong.” He pauses, breathing hard. “Why _everything_ always went so wrong.”

Cullen’s gaze turns bleak, staring into the middle distance. “You were there, too, Champion,” he reminds him, but there’s no accusation to it. “Do you know why?” He stops, but he’s clearly not done talking. When he continues, his voice is a painful thing. “I didn’t know about the worst. I didn’t find that out until – Seeker Cassandra came. She exposed everything. I _am_ sorry. For what I did, and for what I didn’t do.”

Hawke is still furious, over the distant past and the past that just happened. “It’s not me you need to apologize to,” he snarls, and walks away.

Cullen looks to Anders. “Not me, either,” Anders says, more gently than he ever would before.

“It’ll be just me,” he finally says, breaking the silence. Nothing has been resolved, but he doesn’t think it’s ever going to be. “I’ll ride to the camp, and stay around the area. Make sure none of the Wardens try to run – there are a lot of guilty consciences. And some of them actually belong to guilty people.” He shoulders his staff and pushes back his hood, preparing to re-hide his face. “Give me a moment to say goodbye to Hawke. He’ll be staying with Bethany.”

Cullen, nods, and then retreats to give them some distance. Anders sighs, approaching the slumped shoulders and bowed head of his lover, and hooks an arm around his waist.

“I’m coming with you,” Hawke says, unhappy and hurting, just like a child.

“No, you’re not,” Anders corrects him, and then goes about kissing some sense into his head.

~

“Sunshine,” Varric says.

Bethany is seated on a piece of flat ground, her back to the camp, overlooking the desolate surroundings. She doesn’t stir as he comes to stand beside her.

“I’m sorry about Stroud,” he continues. His voice, calm and level in all but the worst of times, soothes her as it always has. “I guess you two were close?”

Bethany thinks the question over, remembering Stroud’s hands on the chalice, supporting it as she drank, already weak and half-dead. His guidance as she trained. How he held her after she saw her first Broodmother, bleak with horror and despair. His pride when he promoted her, gave her command of her first unit. How he drank with her after their first victory, and how reluctant he was to pull her close, no matter how intensely she kissed him, how lewdly she straddled his hips and pressed herself to him—

And then, how he hadn’t been reluctant at all, drinking her in like he could never let her go. And she remembered everything afterwards, her mother’s death, the Qunari invasion, Garrett’s increasingly desperate letters about Anders, the first fight with Corypheus, Anders’ attack on the Chantry. . . .

They had parted some time ago. Stroud had feared that he was being Called, and Bethany had refused to accept it. She had believed he was leaving her to go to his death, but apparently she had persuaded him otherwise. If only he had let her know, they could have been together for a little bit longer.

“Poor Garrett,” is what she finally says. “You could just see him blaming himself, couldn’t you? It all just came collapsing in.”

Varric sighs, long and low, watching her with soulful, sad eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Poor Hawke. He’s a glutton for punishment.”

“Was Anders with him?” she asks, still staring out, remote.

Varric’s big, burly arm settles around her, and her head tips automatically to rest on his shoulder. With her seated and him standing, they are at just the right height for this. “Anders was with him,” Varric promises, his voice rumbling between them. “He’ll be all right.” He pauses. “Will you?”

Her eyes fill again. Distantly, she waits to see if she’s going to cry, but she doesn’t. She hasn’t in a long time.

“I’m going to miss him,” she whispers. She always knew she would, one day. She just didn’t expect it so soon.

Varric strokes her hair. “I know, Sunshine,” he says heavily, and they sit together for a while.


End file.
